She gets lost in this house like I get lost in my own tangents*

Oh hai there blog. Kinda forgot about you for a while didn't I? Even after I promised to fill you with photos of baking and cake and the post-baking trauma I always suffer through after looking at what my baking escapades do to the poor, innocent, once-spotless kitchen. And what's worse is that this post isn't even that one I promised! It is 100% cakeless! In fact, those photos aren't even uploaded to the computer yet. Good grief, what good am I? Are any of you still reading? I know you can't see it right now, but my head is hanging in shame. Promise.

But school, work, the holiday, laziness...blah, blah, blah. There are my excuses.

I hope you all had an excellent Thanksgiving, though. Mine was uneventful - a welcome break from last Christmas where my grandfather became paranoid that we all were ignoring him (hello! Get a hearing aid!) and became drunk with both a) anger and b) liquor (bet you didn't see that one coming) which resulted in him falling into the Christmas tree in front of the entire family, kids included. And then there was a spontaneous intervention which is a post unto itself even though I'll probably never write it because there are some stories that even I can't spin into a lighthearted-chucklefest (and this is the girl who finds it hilarious that I once tried to break my hand so I would have an excuse not to play clarinet anymore ha! aha! haha! ha? anyway...) - although (do you ever remember what I was talking about on the other side of that novel-length interpolation? I even had to go back to see where the hell I started this sentence) I was occasionally entertained by my perfectly lucid grandmother constantly getting lost and confused in our single-story 1200 sq. ft. house.

Granted, there isn't a single room in the house with 2 pairs of perfectly parallel walls, as you can see here in my (very rough, not at all to scale) layout I whipped up for you:

Back

Front

So sometimes the angles can throw you. To a point, that is. For instance, I can't tell you how many times my path from my computer desk to my bathroom looks like this:

In my defense, though, it's not due to any confusion as to where I am. It's just that once I get to the hallway I suddenly realize that I have to pee. So instead of three steps to the toilet, I end up taking thirty and I feel like an idiot for doing so (especially since it happens AT LEAST once a day), but think of all those extra calories I'm burning! Screw you, Jillian Michaels and your 30 Day Shred. I have my own fat-blasting routine, thankyouverymuch. It's called Having a Subtle Bladder.

(Subtitle: In a Bizarrely Laid-Out House)

Anyway, back to my grandma. Over the course of the two days she was here, I got to hear these gems:

1. (While in the living room) "This isn't the kitchen!"

2. (While heading to the kitchen) "Hold on, this isn't my room..." (She was staying in the Master)

And then see that blue line between the kitchen and the living room? That's some sort of indoor glassless window so you can watch TV while washing the dishes (what a world). At one point during my grandparents' visit as we were getting ready to go somewhere, my grandmother was standing on the living room side of that opening, and I was on the kitchen side, and she asked me if the backdoor was locked. I looked over her shoulder at the back door, saw that it was, and told her so, and then she replied, "How can you see it from there?"

I nodded towards it, "It's just right back there."

She smiled, thinking I was playing some sort of joke on her, "No-oooo, that's the back of the house!" referring to the wall behind me.

"No, that is."

"Don't tell me that's where we come in?" (She pointed behind me)

"Well, those are windows, but the front door is just over there." (I pointed in it's general direction, also behind me.)

"No!"

"I swear! Do you want me to draw you a blueprint? It's really not that hard."

"Oh no, I like the surpise!"

Whatever works for you, Grandma. Whatever works for you.

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*If I ever write a song, that will be a lyric.